Happy Stories, Mostly

by Norman Erikson Pasaribu

Hampir, the Indonesian for almost, only a letter away from vampir—the bloodsucking demon. What does it mean to be happy? Also, what does it mean to be almost happy? To almost get in, to be almost accepted, to be almost there, but, at the same time, to be not there/accepted/in. So, in a world where we celebrate disneyfied heterosexualities, for queer folks, what is happiness? Often, it becomes the bloodsucking demon, the vampir, the hampir.

Even worse than experiencing genuine misfortune, to my mind, was telling someone about it and being considered a liar; for isn’t the denial that a massacre happened even more tragic than the massacre itself?

I felt that such a story would prove useful someday—a bottomless pit of sorrow-bricks for me to mine, to build my Babel Tower of misery.